


Live In Hollow Ground

by prosceniumarch



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Study, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Memories, Pre-Avengers (2012), Sad with a Happy Ending, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:49:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosceniumarch/pseuds/prosceniumarch
Summary: spectrenouna ghost.After he wakes from the ice, SHIELD send Steve to an isolated retreat to come to terms with the 21st Century. Steve grieves.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	Live In Hollow Ground

It took just two days for S.H.I.E.L.D. to send him away from New York after the ice.

“It’s just for a short time.” Fury had said, citing Steve’s need for a quiet, private environment to acclimatise to the 21st century in. That was the official line, anyway. Steve was well-versed enough in doublespeak to understand that SHIELD wanted him out of the way until they figured out what they were going to do with him. Steve hadn’t bothered to argue with their decision either way, mainly because there didn’t seem to be a point in it but also because there was nothing to show for staying in New York anyhow.

They set him up in a nice farmhouse somewhere away from the coast. He wasn’t sure how far they’d sent him from home – they never said, and the planes moved so much faster, now – but it was warm and the house was pleasant enough, even though it did feel distinctly unlike home. He supposed that he couldn’t really ask for much better; home was a rather tall order.

Still, the house was attractive, even if it was the sort of pretty that Steve didn’t know existed beyond a postcard. It was a twee, American dream of a building with all the trimmings, sprawled comfortably over twenty-five acres of land. It was the sort of house that looked like it should exist only in a Country Life illustration. Steve loathed it.

It’s just that it was so different to everything that he’d ever known. During the war, he’d gotten used to the brutalism of Europe. Most of the Commandos’ operations had been clandestine and had taken them way beyond the front. Steve’s favourite missions had been the ones that took them through the mountains; The Alps in particular were spectacularly beautiful and bleak during the winter.

One of their earliest operations had focused on a base in the mountainous area of southern France and northern Italy. Steve remembers their pilgrimage to the base fondly, all seven of them packed into an SSR truck disguised as a supply lorry. He remembers the night they spent sleeping in the back, bickering about elbows and knees and Dugan’s snoring. He remembers the evening rendezvous with a band of Free French Fighters and Dernier’s _incessant_ flirting with one of the women. Mostly, though, he remembers the morning he and Bucky sat up front in the cab.

“You should go to sleep.” Bucky had told him, glancing sideways at Steve from behind the wheel.

Steve, who had been quietly losing the struggle to keep himself from falling into unconsciousness, lied: “I’m not tired.”

Bucky just shrugged. “Sure.” He said in that tone that meant that he knew that he was right but had accepted that there was simply no point in arguing with an idiot. “Whatever you say, pal.”

Steve sat himself up straighter, just out of spite. “Aren’t _you_ tired?”

Another shrug. “Bit.”

“I could drive for a little while?” Steve offered.

Bucky levelled him a glance. “Steve, no offense, but I don’t feel like plunging to my death today, thanks.”

“I’m not _that_ bad.” Steve had grumbled, though it was more out of principle than anything; even he’d had to admit that he really was _that_ bad of a driver. The last time the Commandos had let Steve drive anything larger than a motorbike they’d all ended up in a ditch. Steve remembered taking a look down the steep mountain pass that Bucky was manoeuvring the truck along and conceding that his driving probably would have resulted in an ending much worse than a ditch.

“Hey, at least we’d go down together.” Steve said.

“With a nice view, too.” Bucky agreed.

Bucky had been right, of course; over the edge of the overpass, the valley tumbled downwards in a carpet of frosted pines and untouched snow. Above them the mountains stretched upwards to peaks blanketed in fog like brushed steel. It was beautiful enough that it had been difficult for Steve to imagine that they were unsafe there at all, never mind rapidly approaching a Hydra stronghold. The sun had been beginning to break through a fog on a day that felt impossibly cold and impossibly still; the kind of day where even the air felt stoic and heavy with ice. It was the kind of day where the silence was so present it was almost a noise itself.

Bucky had obviously enjoyed the quiet beauty of the sunrise. He’d looked relaxed behind the wheel, smiling and humming something that Steve didn’t recognise. He’d looked more natural than Steve had seen him in a while.

Steve had found himself suddenly unable to look away.

In the morning light, Bucky looked different – younger, somehow, with his slack-jaw and feathery eyelashes. There was something so wildly innocent about the way Bucky looked in the watery dawn sun – a certain, rare tenderness to him.

The road flattened, then, and Bucky had turned suddenly, catching Steve looking at him. Steve blinked, embarrassed to have been caught staring, but Bucky just smiled wide and coy. Something tender passed between them, and then Bucky’s hand had moved from the wheel and found its way into Steve’s. For a moment, all was well.

 _I love him_ , Steve had thought. For a moment he’d felt full with the feeling – it felt like something hot, solid and hard coming together in his chest. He felt almost sick on it, like if he thought about it too much it would come bursting out of him. _I love him, I love him._

Steve had smiled and turned again to watch the fog rolling across the mountain tops, the sun rising steadily beyond them. The had van continued to rumble, Bucky’s thumb warm against the back of his hand.

Even after everything that had happened in the Alps afterwards, Steve still loved those early memories of the mountains. Even before the war, Steve had been never been used to the flat simplicity of the farmhouse. New York was like a mountain range of its own, growing taller as the tectonics of wealth pushed the city skyward.

Growing up in Brooklyn had sometimes felt just as harsh as life in war-torn Europe, though Steve tried not to remember those years, not directly. S.H.I.E.L.D. had told him to look forward, not backward, and he didn’t have much better to do than listen to them. Especially now they’d put so much effort into getting him into the future.

As far as he understood, the idea was that he was going to spend the next however many weeks or months learning and adapting to the intricacies of the 21st century, removed from the sensory overload that they’d tried to pass off as New York. Steve wasn’t sure how long that was going to take; it’d been close to a week already. He’d wanted to ask, but he’d a strong enough conviction to believe that he wouldn’t like the answer very much.

So far, though, he’d been left to his own devices, which was just fine by him. He supposed that they were leaving him some time to rest, which he’d found deeply ironic but appreciated anyway. Besides, his experience with other people’s interventions into his business had never gone very well – least of all in this new century – so he appreciated the illusion of having even a semblance of control over his life. 

…..

Steve, freshly out of the shower and still in his robe, cast a severe look at the man stood on his doorstep.

The man cleared his throat and stared back, as if he wasn’t the one stood on Steve’s porch at eight AM in the morning. Steve was a bit taken aback by that; most people got a glimpse of his muscled shoulders and shrunk instinctively.

“Can I come in?” The man asked when he realised that Steve wasn’t going to do anything but stare.

Steve shrugged and let the man in, gesturing for him to step into the kitchen. “I’ve just made coffee.” Steve said, watching the man take a seat at his kitchen table. It was the only thing he could think to say. “Do you want some?”

The man accepted.

Once Steve had fixed them both a cup, he took his own seat opposite his guest. There was an excruciating few seconds of silence which neither of them were quite ready to fill, and then the man seemed to pull himself together. “Captain Rogers, I’m Doctor Rowe, I’m here to discuss–” 

“You know what,” Steve interjected, suddenly gripped by the feeling that he should be wearing underwear for this conversation, “I think I’m gonna go put some clothes on.”

Steve took his time to dress even though all the clothes in his wardrobe were essentially identical. He settled on a collared shirt and corduroy trousers and very much felt like a man out of time. He considered a cardigan or a sweater but settled on putting his robe back on over his clothes; it was made of navy cashmere and made Steve feel more sophisticated than he was. It probably cost more than all of the clothing he had owned in the 40s put together.

When Steve returned to the kitchen he was almost convinced that he’d been gone long enough to encourage Dr Rowe to leave. He had to suppress a sigh at the sight of Rowe still sitting where Steve had left him.

Steve returned to his previous seat and took a long gulp of coffee. “What can I do for you, Dr Rowe?” He said carefully. Best to get over and done with, he supposed.

“I work for S.H.I.E.L.D.” Rowe explained. “I’m here to talk about the process of your recovery.” His accent was neutral but his tone was anything but pleasant. In fact, Steve thought, Rowe was almost entirely unpleasant.

“The other doctors said I was fine.” Steve countered, thinking unfavourably back to the hours upon hours of examinations and tests and scans and questions. 

“I’m not that kind of doctor.” Rowe assured him. “I’m a psychiatrist.” 

“A shrink?” Steve clarified. The prospect was even more unfavourable than the idea of being stuck with more needles.

Rowe’s face went sour. The expression was very, very unflattering on him. “That’s not a term I’d prefer.” 

Steve found a little guilty satisfaction in that. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry?” He wasn’t.

“That’s quite alright.” Rowe said, with great reluctance. The crease between his eyebrows said the opposite.

“Well, whatever you are, I’m okay, thanks.” Steve said, after another of those pauses that neither of them had wanted to fill. He stood. “If that’s all you wanted to speak about I’ll see you out.”

Rowe’s thin lips somehow managed to recede even further into his body. He remained seated. “Captain Rogers,” He said, slow like Steve was a child, “You must have some kind of psychiatric evaluation before you can be cleared to come home.”

“I thought I was here voluntarily.” Steve said.

Dr Rowe scrambled to answer. “You are, of course.” He reassured. “You can leave anytime. But S.H.I.E.L.D. can’t in good faith bring you back to any of our facilities if we think there’s even a slight chance that you could cause harm to yourself or others.”

Steve’s mouth straightened. “I don’t want to harm anyone.”

“But surely you understand our concern? You have been through very considerable trauma and you’re ignorant of almost everything of this century. Almost everything is different.”

“I know that.” Steve ground out. He sat back down.

“We’re concerned about you. We want to make sure you’re as stable and adjusted as possible before we clear your return. We just need your cooperation.”

Wasn’t that the crux of it, Steve realised. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s biggest concern was Steve’s cooperation. They had no concern for his health or his well-being, only his usefulness. S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted only a functional weapon that they could point wherever they pleased without the worry of malfunction; they didn’t want the mess that was left of Steve Rogers. That was one of the only things that Steve was sure of in this new century – that he was worthless to them without the uniform.

He was also sure of the fact that besides Captain America, there was nothing left for him in this new world, and that nothing he would ever do again would feel as if it had any worth. He was also sure that these were the things the psychologists would want to hear and would be able to do nothing about. 

And he was sure of that, too: he was sure there was nothing that could be done that could help him. He’d heard them say it as clearly themselves – back when he’d still been in medical, they’d spoken in hushed voices about him. “His situation is unprecedented,” they’d say, “there’s no precedent of what he might be feeling… I couldn’t even hazard a guess.” They were right; even Steve himself couldn’t put a finger on what he was feeling.

He just felt alone. Strangely empty, too, like he’d left something crucial behind when he took the plane down. 

He remembered how, in Europe, the Commandos had found the body of a man with his insides torn out, settled on a bed of mould. Steve remembered how they had loomed over him, looking at the hole in his ribcage, that gentle arc of bone. He remembered the way the corpse’s face had withered to the bone, frozen somewhere halfway between agony and terror.

He wonders if that was what he had looked like when they’d found him in the ice; hollowed out, afraid. He wonders if that’s what Dr Rowe is seeing as he sits across from at his kitchen table.

Steve took another sip of his coffee. It had started to go cold. “What do I need to do?”

Dr Rowe’s eyebrows shifted.

“Well, you’ll have an initial assessment with myself. It will be informal; I’ll ask questions and make some notes. Depending on how that session goes, I’ll either refer you to a colleague or continue your therapy myself.”

Steve nodded, already considering how he could secure himself that referral. Dr Rowe seemed to read Steve’s intentions from his expression and continued, resigned, “S.H.I.E.L.D. are putting together a course on everything you missed. You can choose how you want it delivered – self-taught or guided.”

“That’s a lot to cover.” Steve said.

“Yes.” Rowe agreed. “You’ll learn the basics here. Once we’ve done your psychological evaluation you’ll be clear to return to New York to continue your learning.”

Steve sighed. He knew he was being manipulated but the prospect of learning what had happened to the world while he had slept was so tempting it was like dangling a carrot in front of his face. Besides, his only other option was to stay here and try to make a break for it which was wildly infeasible. Steve didn’t have any money, transport or even a clue where the hell he was in the country. It would be much easier to play S.H.I.E.L.D.’s game and see where it took him.

His mind wandered to Peggy. If she were here she would probably have laughed at Steve’s stubbornness. S.H.I.E.L.D. was her legacy, after all, and Steve trusted her implicitly. He believed in her and her vision for the world even while he struggled with the tactics that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new leaders were employing against him.

“Fine.” Steve agreed. “I’ll do it.”

….

Dr Rowe left with an appointment set for the next week. Steve stood on his porch and watched him drive away until his car was just a speck on the horizon, then headed back inside.

He made himself a sandwich and another pot of coffee and then took both into the lounge. There was a plush, red settee and a large coffee table in the centre of the room. There was a bookshelf against one wall and a sidetable with a record player pushed against the other. Steve put his food on the table and stepped over to the turntable. The selection of records SHIELD had provided were eclectic so Steve pulled one from the stack at random; it was a recording of Holst’s _The Planets_ by the London Symphony Orchestra. Steve dropped the needle then sat and ate.

The afternoon passed. Steve got up a couple of times to change the music but otherwise did nothing much.

He was very much alone.

….

The thing is, Steve was well acquainted with isolation.

When he was ten and so poorly he could barely lift his head, a note had been pinned to the door of the apartment he shared with his mother.

His mother had recounted its contents to him dutifully, though she wasn’t pleased about it. In fact, Steve knew that she hadn’t wanted to tell him about the note at all, but he’d heard the way the she’d talked to the doctor when she thought he had fallen asleep, and then the commotion by the door. There were some things that he just couldn’t ignore. “‘Scarlet fever,’ it says,” she’d told him, reluctantly, standing in the rectangle of light of their bedroom door. “See, we knew that already, didn’t we?” Steve, even through the fog of fever knew that she was stalling. “It also says.” She swallowed. “‘Keep out of this house by order of the Board of Health.’”

Steve listened to how her voice had worked around those words. They were too formal, almost, and certainly too cold. At least the doctor had had a certain tenderness about him, but the note? It was nothing more than a legalese death sentence for a kid about to die alone.

His mother exhaled slowly through her nose. The light behind her was too strong for Steve to make out her face clearly, but he thought she was maybe trying not to cry. “It’s just a quarantine notice, Stevie. It’s only twenty-eight days.”

Steve, who had known sickness his whole life, knew it was more than just that. He knew a quarantine meant twenty-eight days of isolation. He also knew that the scarlet fever would likely kill him before those days were spent.

He wanted to smash things and curse and lose his temper, but he couldn’t even find the energy to cry. All that came to him were useless, silent tears. He didn’t have the strength to lift his arm to wipe them from his eyes, so he shut them instead.

“Stevie…” his mother tried. “Steve, honey…”

  
But he didn't open his eyes again, and after a while she left him be. Now that he was alone, he thought perhaps he would have been better not knowing what the note said after all. Perhaps ignorance _would_ have been better. At the very least, it may have stopped him from feeling like this: like he was hopeless, like he was alone. Like he had been condemned.

That was what followed him, in the end, even after he had started to get better. That feeling of being condemned.

The other children in the neighbourhood seemed to sense it. Even though it had been lifted, it was like he never quite managed to escape the quarantine: the other children had never wanted anything to do with Steve in the first place, and now they had reason. Nothing Steve could say would convince them otherwise. The children weren’t alone in avoiding him, either. His mother had tried to hide the absence of visitors to their home, but Steve knew better: Sarah had always been popular, and their apartment had always been busy with the passing faces of their neighbours. Now, more often than not, Sarah’s friends wouldn’t even knock on their door.

What was different, then, however, was that while he had felt it he hadn’t really been alone: Sarah Rogers had loved him fiercer than any fever. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” She had promised him at the peak of his sickness. “Not a thing.”

There was Bucky, too, who had taken to passing notes to Sarah for her to read to Steve. Bucky made himself a nuisance around her, nagging Sarah for updates on Steve’s condition or incessantly begging to be allowed to see him. He was so bloody-minded that he could give even Steve a run for his money.

Sarah feigned frustration at Bucky, but really she was glad for him: Steve needed all the allies he could get and Bucky was a sweet kid at heart. His bothering was because he cared. Besides, his notes almost always managed to perk Steve up. Sometimes they even made her giggle.

When Steve was finally on the mend and his quarantine was lifted, Bucky sobbed in unapologetic relief into her shoulder. She’d gripped him tight and shed some tears herself though she would never admit it if asked.

She let Bucky in to see Steve the next morning. Steve was still in bed, weak but no longer ill. Sarah marvelled at the way Bucky hugged Steve when he saw him, cautious and tender, so unlike his usual childish hyperactivity. She left them to catch up in peace thinking about the purity of childhood friendships and thanking her lucky stars that her son had someone who loved him as much as she did.

…….

The next week, Dr Rowe came back with his questions. Steve had been alone at the farmhouse for close to three weeks and was so desperate to leave that he found himself cooperating almost immediately. He listened carefully to every question Dr Rowe asked. He thought his answers out and responded in the way he thought Rowe would want him to. Dr Rowe was surprised but emboldened enough by Steve’s change of heart to not read too deeply into Steve’s motivations.

“How did you feel when you woke up?”

“I was afraid.” Steve answered honestly. “I knew that wherever I was wasn’t as it appeared. I was worried that I had been captured by the enemy.”

“Which is why you responded as you did.”

“Yes.” Steve agreed.

“That’s perfectly understandable.” Rowe said. “S.H.I.E.L.D. can admit that it was a mistake to employ that tactic in hindsight. Now, tell me about Times Square…”

At the end of their session, Rowe shook his hand and told him that either himself or a colleague would be in touch. Steve again stood on his porch and watched him drive away.

……..

Eyes shut, jaw angled to the sky, Steve felt empty. He’d been kept him in that damned house for two and a half months, and now it was midnight and he was taking his first, proper look at New York in seventy years.

The strangest thing about it was that it barely felt new at all. 

In fact, for all of its pageantry, New York had barely changed. Like this, with a cover of darkness, Steve could almost pretend that he was in the same city that he’d grown up in, if he just tried hard enough… 

That’s what hurt the most, Steve thought. He almost wished that New York could be unrecognisable. He thought that if he should have had to lose everything, is wasn’t fair that he should have to keep this; this echo of everything he’d thought was gone for ever.

But, then, Steve turned a corner and recalled saying, “I got beat up in that alley…” and wanted to stoop and kiss the gutter that he’d bled in as if the kerbstone would remember him by name.

It was coincidental that it was there it happened for the first time. Steve glanced across the road to see if the building that had been O’Malley’s was still there and felt himself stop dead. There was a man crossing the street towards him.

For a second, Steve though he was looking right at Bucky. The ground felt very suddenly unstable, as if it might reach up to meet him, or him it. 

Steve watched, his mouth dry, as the man took a drag from a roll-up. Even the angle of his jaw looked right from a distance. 

Then Steve’s brain caught up as he finally got a good look at the man.

His eyes were brown.

It happened frequently after that. Steve saw Bucky everywhere, always in someplace incongruous, sometimes in places Steve knew he and Bucky had never visited back then.

He’d see the line of Bucky’s body leaning against a red brick wall, or his ankles dangling off a fire escape. He’d see Bucky’s eyes in a stranger’s face on the subway, or smell his cologne in line for coffee.

Except Bucky wasn’t really there. It was just echoes of him, images that the tangled mess of Steve’s grief conjured from thin air.

…….

For a while, it got worse instead of better.

He was hopelessly lonely. He just couldn’t seem to get close to anyone; he was too out of touch or too weird or too miserable to be good company. Steve thought it was about right that people should avoid him, though it did still hurt. He was deeply ashamed that he had outlived so many other people who had gotten sick and or injured or died where he had lived. That was what was so terrible - he knew that he deserved this loneliness, and that everyone else was correct in their judgement of him. He was a walking sob story.

But life moved on. There was the Chitauri and the clean-up. The endless parade of press. He kept busy. He moved to DC and worked with S.H.I.E.L.D. full-time. He was useful again.

…….

Bucky had laughed, loud and bright, when Steve had grumbled about being a waste of space all those years ago.

“That’s hilarious,” Bucky had said.

Steve blinked at him, incredulous.

“That’s hilariously stupid.” Bucky said slowly, as if that would explain his outburst. “Real stupid.”

Steve frowned over the scattering of documents he was trying to set neatly in order on the table. “Yeah, well, that’s what _I_ said. I am.” He agreed, and then huffed. “I just can’t figure out the order to all of these. I don’t know how you’ve managed to get all of yours right.”

“If you’d have just done it while you were going along…” Bucky sighed. “And you _know_ that’s not what I meant. I mean, _you_ ain’t stupid. It’s stupid that you _think_ about yourself like that.”

Steve’s frown deepened. That obviously wasn’t true. Bucky had to realise that – he was either being kind or he was stupid himself. The latter was unlikely; Steve knew firsthand that Bucky was exceptionally bright.

“Well, I am.” Steve insisted. “I’m sick all the time, and I’m probably gonna get the sack ‘cause of it. I can’t keep up with you.”

“I think I’m the one keeping up with you, pal.” Bucky frowned. “And you’re not even that sick anymore.” He added.

Steve huffed. That was actually true. But, Steve thought, even if his fevers had grown fewer and farther between in the years they’d been friends, he felt there was still a sickness about him.

Wasn’t Bucky always saying that Becca was the best little sister in the world, even if Steve thought she was annoying and downright spoilt at her worst? Bucky was always saying that Steve was family to him, so perhaps it _was_ that. You were always willing to look past a family member’s downfalls, Steve had learnt. Blood was thicker than water.

Maybe Bucky was blinded by the same forces that his mother had been. They both seemed to share such unrelenting belief in him – a kind of misguided loyalty that Steve couldn’t trace the root of.

“Look, Steve, I don’t know what you’re not buying here.” Bucky said, serious. “I’m not gonna stop being your friend because you’ve got a cough or – or whatever it is you’re worried about.”

Steve shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not good enough.” He admitted.

Bucky scoffed and kissed him, square on the mouth. “You are.” He insisted. Then he kissed him again, longer this time. “I don’t care if you never see it, I’ll love you either way.”

Something warm and heavy settled against Steve’s sternum and he ducked his head to hide the blush he could feel heating his neck. “Okay.”

Bucky said nothing, but he kissed him again, deep and slow.

Steve kissed him back, thinking about what Bucky had said after his mother's funeral and tried to believe it.

…….

…….

After the helicarriers fell, Steve went to Europe.

For the first time, he allowed himself to think about how certain places were spoilt. New York was filled with ghosts. How was he supposed to move on when he was surrounded by spectres of his past? He let himself think about the first time he’d woken up in this century, about the cruelty of the ruse that S.H.I.E.L.D. had constructed around him. It was almost like they had known that the last thing that had really been pure in Steve’s life was this:

The line of Bucky’s jaw raised against the blue of the New York sky, his mouth curved in a smile around the kind of confession that could get them killed. Steve remembers it in slow motion – in black and white – the way that Bucky’s head had turned to his, the shadow that the peaked cap of his hat had cast across his eyebrows.

It had mattered, then, because it was the first in a series of lasts for them – it would be the last time that Bucky would see New York, or the version of Steve that he had fallen in love with. It would be the last time that Steve would see Bucky whole.

It was to be the last time that their city would stand sentinel to the way that their hands met furtively as if by accident, or the complicated and yet simple sense in which they loved each other. Like it was beyond them. Like it was easy.

It seemed fitting, then, that he’d opened his eyes again – for the first time – in New York.

…..

It was even more fitting, somehow, that Bucky finally caught up with him somewhere neither of them had ever been before, his body changed irrevocably but his eyes very much the same blue.

“Hi.” Bucky said. Steve etched the moment permanently into his memory, the first of many more.

**End**.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading - I'd love to know what you thought!! this was unbeta-ed, so all mistakes are my own. if you spot anything glaring feel free to lmk <3
> 
> This one was definitely a labour of love. I started it waaaaaay back in 2017 and then left it to simmer for a couple of years. I came back to it a couple of weeks ago and I guess now was the right time. my first post since 2017! go figure! the title is a mis-heard Lorde lyric: the actual lyrics is from buzzcut season, "I live in a hologram with you."
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr](https://sgtbarneses.tumblr.com/) or give this fic a reblog [here](https://sgtbarneses.tumblr.com/post/635603526703349760/title-live-in-hollowed-ground-chapters-11/)


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